Remembering John Watson
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: An unfortunate accident leaves Sherlock without his memories and rebuilding their relationship seems to take a rockier start than John had hoped.
1. Chapter 1

It starts with a painfully vibrant skid piercing through their eardrums.

Their hearts skip a beat.

Their heads snap forward.

"Jesus Christ!"

Screaming.

The last thing they both hear is the sound of glass shattering before they black out.

* * *

John always dreaded the sound of sirens.

"Out of the way, we've got a severe TBI!"

"Move move move!"

"He's fading in and out of consciousness!"

"Code blue! Code blue!"

* * *

When Sherlock opens his eyes, he doesn't know who he is anymore. Quite literally.

There's a faint, steady beep ringing in his ears, and for a while he believe it's in his head and that he's going crazy, but then he feels a needle digging deep into his arm and realizes that he's in a hospital hooked up to a heart monitor. He feels a presence beside him, but when he tried to turn his head, he quickly learns that he can't. It's painful, and he's stuck staring up at the dismal cream-colored ceiling.

He lies there for what seems like a decade, trying to remember what the hell just happened, but thinking gives him a headache so he stops trying. He settles on figuring out which parts of his body he can still function with. He can feel both his arms, that much was settled when he felt the IV. He inconspicuously wiggles his toes and lets out a tiny sigh of relief in knowing his legs seem to be okay, only to wince in pain in realizing it hurts to sigh. He brings the arm that doesn't have a needle sticking in it up to his chest and feels the brace that's pressing down onto his torso, fit snugly, perhaps a bit too tight.

Just then, the body next to him stirs. Sherlock hears a soft inhale of breath, and even without looking he understands that whoever is sitting next to him is slowly waking up. He strains his eyes to the side, trying to get a good look at whoever this person was. Male, obviously, by the fresh musky scent emitting from this person's body. Sherlock decides to close his eyes again and pretend he's still asleep. One can learn a lot about a relationship based on how another person reacts while they're sleeping.

The chair creaks and Sherlock can tell the man is leaning forward. He feels the back of an ice cold hand on his cheek and the temperature itself nearly makes him opens his eyes back up, but then he feels the hand stroking his face and decides against it. Yes, this is definitely a man's hand. His left, based on the positioning of his fingers. There's a cold metal brushing across his cheekbones, cooler than the rest of the hand if that's even possible. Wedding ring, perhaps.

The man leans forward a bit more and Sherlock can feel hot breath hovering over him, a strange contrast to the frozen hand. Although if his breath wasn't warm, Sherlock couldn't have been sure this person was even alive.

He feels a pair of lips descend upon his and immediately shoots his eyes wide open and lets out and strangled gasp, realizing that this situation could get dangerous quickly.

The man instantly steps back, return Sherlock's gasp with one of his own, a bit more drawn-out. Oh, it must be nice to breathe. Sherlock's actually a bit jealous.

"Sherlock!" The man cries, as if he were an ecstatic father who had just found his missing son of three years.

Who?

Sherlock's only response is to blink at the ceiling and wonder who this man was. His voice didn't sound familiar whatsoever. Then again, the name Sherlock didn't sound familiar either.

The man lets out a relieved chuckle, and then a choked up sob, and then he says to Sherlock "wait right here Sherlock, I'll get a nurse. Oh what am I saying where could you possibly go? I'll be back, I promise."

And with that, he's gone and Sherlock is all alone in his solitary room, painstakingly silent save for that confounding steady beep of his heart monitor. Sherlock. Sherlock. Why did he keep calling him Sherlock? Is that his name? What an odd thing to call someone.

The man returns just a short while later and brings with him another set of footprints. Female, judging by the sound the soles of her shoes make.

"Sherlock Holmes," the lady remarks, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Awake at last. I'd say you've had a bit of a rough week. Can you speak?" She leans over so that Sherlock can see her smiling. The other man leans over too, and Sherlock can finally see his face.

Sherlock parts his lips, realizes there's no moisture in his throat, and regrettably croaks out the inevitably "who are you?"

He watches the other man's face fall drastically in a blink of an eye.

The nurse looks a bit concerned. "Oh dear." She turns to the man and says to him "Doctor Watson,, it'd be best if you stepped outside for a minute. I was afraid something like this might happen."

Watson. The man named Watson gave Sherlock one last nearly disappointing glance before shuffling away from the scene as the nurse wrapped a compression sleeve around Sherlock's arm.

* * *

When John walks back into the room, two other men accompany him, one wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope and the other wearing a stuck-up fancy black suit. Sherlock can recognize neither of them.

Sherlock is sitting up now, it makes it easier to breath. He can look John straight up and down. Short, stiff, one arm wrapped up in a white cast up to his elbow and a scar hardly a week old running down the side of his face.

The man in the white coat, a doctor obviously, takes a seat beside Sherlock and immediately asks, "Do you know who you are?"

Sherlock swallows. The nurse had given him water, but his throat still feels dry. "No," he rasps. He's almost afraid to admit.

"Do you know who either of these men are?" The doctor points to the only other two people in the room.

"No," is Sherlock's reluctant answer. He has an aching feeling he should, but he can only make guesses. The short man's name is Watson, he's of the military-or used to be, and more than likely judging by the cast had been in the same accident as Sherlock. The taller man was lean and well-dressed. His black dress shoes were shining. Government worker, no doubt, although Sherlock couldn't recall the slightest bit what he had to have done wrong to have a government official standing in his hospital room.

The doctor continues with his questions. "What is the last date you remember?"

Sherlock struggles to remember, but thinking hurts, and he lets out a strained but exasperated sigh. "I don't know. It's all…foggy."

"Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You've been in an accident," the doctor explains. "You were in a cab in the midst of a storm."

"With him?" Sherlock slowly raised an arm to point at John. John's lips tighten at his movement.

The doctor nods. "The cab flipped over. You suffered massive head trauma and a few broken ribs."

"Massive head trauma?" John all but snorts. "Are you going to mention there was a giant shard of glass sticking out of his head?"

Dear lord, that sounded frightening, even to Sherlock.

The doctor then turns to John and the mystery man, who hadn't said a word the entire time. In fact, Sherlock couldn't be sure he had even moved a muscle. Even his face seemed to be a vacant stoic stare the entire conversation. "Post-traumatic amnesia," the doctor says. "How severe depends on how long it lasts, really, but it doesn't look good. Might have to start from scratch. Slowly, mind you. Give him general ideas first, then dig into particulars. He'll be staying here for a few days and then he'll be off. I've prescribed painkillers."

And with that, the doctor stands up and walks away, followed by the government official, whose presence seemed more to Sherlock like a waste of precious oxygen. He and Doctor Watson were the only ones in the room. The deafening silent room. And they stare. Stare straight at each other, neither of them adverting his gaze. Sherlock is studying him. He doesn't want to ask. Whoever this man is, he seems important enough to Sherlock to stay by his unconscious side, and then there was that terribly intimate moment where they had very nearly kissed. Sherlock had his suspicious, but he didn't want to jump to conclusions before he had gathered all the facts.

"Who was that man?" Sherlock asked, instead referring to the man in the black suit.

John clears his throat and looks back towards the door like the man would have still be there, being the first to break eye contact. "Oh, um, Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. "Holmes? A relative?" Holmes is not a very common last name, and if it is indeed Sherlock's, Mycroft might not be so far off.

John nods. "Brother. Older brother."

"I see." For some reason, the thought of having an older brother did not appeal to him at all. He hesitated, looked John straight in the eye, and asked the inevitable. "And you are?"

John chews on his bottom lip like he's gravely upset but trying his hardest to hide it. "John," he finally says. "John Watson."

When it's clear he won't say much else, Sherlock responds with "and our relationship?"

John pauses again, this silence longer than the last, like he's trying to think of a way to put it. Sherlock had to have gone through countless numbers of ideas and scenarios already before John finally spoke in the most robotic tone humanely possible, with absolutely no emotions seeping from his voice.

"Flatmates. We're flatmates."

Sherlock blinks. "I see."

Another more than awkward silence.

John clears his throat again. "I'll…uh, leave you alone to sort things out I suppose. I'll be back tomorrow. See how you're doing, yeah?"

Sherlock just shuts his lips as tight as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

John signs the release papers with his non-dominant hand (his writing arm a bit preoccupied by the cast) so hard he might've ripped the papers, and walks away in an angry huff, his stride probably more fast paced than should be allowed in a hospital.

Sherlock doesn't call out for him as he follows behind, the distance between them growing the faster John walks. Sherlock can't walk that fast yet, the pain in his healing ribs still a bit much to bear. He finally loses sight of John. He heads out the building towards a cab parked outside, where he finds John sitting in the backseat, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows deeply furrowed. Sherlock slips into the seat beside him like nothing has happened, closes the door, and the cab drives off.

They ride in silence.

When the cab parks just in front of 221B Baker Street, John is the first to get out, hurriedly as if the cab were on fire or if Sherlock had smelled like rotting flesh and tuna the entire ride and John was going to die if he didn't get fresh air. Neither of which were true, of course. John practically throws money at the cab driver and doesn't wait for Sherlock as he angrily bursts through the flat. In silence, as if he is completely unperturbed by John's behavior, Sherlock politely leaves the cab and slowly walks up to his apparent home. He doesn't know where he is. He knows he's seen this door before, but the memories just aren't there.

Stepping into the living room, he's greeted by John's voice, raised in both pitch and volume.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John hissed, shrugging his coat off and slamming it to the floor so that the metal zipper clinked loudly. Sherlock doesn't seem startled by the other man's actions.

"I fail to see what you're so embarrassed about, Wats-John," he corrects himself without emotion. Calling him by first name is still going to need getting used to, as although technically they've been best friends for years, they've really only just met a couple days ago.

John lets out an exasperated sigh. "It's a bit unsightly to sit there and delve out every rotten dirty secret every nurse who's been assigned to you ever had!"

"Sitting in a room forbidden to do anything is awfully dull. I was bored. I deduced all the nurses, I don't understand why this one was any different."

"Good God," John groans, slumping into his armchair and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, you do realize you're supposed to still be at the hospital right now? You weren't supposed to be released until tomorrow evening. But then you had to go and make that scene."

"None of this would have happened if she wasn't such a crying idiot."

"You blatantly told her that her boyfriend was only with her for her chest size. Of course she was going to cry and complain. How on earth did you know what anyways?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Her jewelry, naturally. Her necklace, more specifically. It was a locket in the shape of a heart, classic gift between lovers. It could have been a gift from someone else, but she was playing with it fondly while wearing a stupidly cheeky grin across her lips, indicating that she thought of her boyfriend when she touched it, meaning he obviously bought it. The necklace is cheap, though. Gold paint that's wearing off at a rather alarmingly quick rate, which meant he didn't spend much money on it. He could be poor, but by the state of her other seventeen pieces of jewelry all expensive and real, poor boys aren't her style, which means he's not all off bad financially. The fact that he spent so little effort buying her a gift suggests he's not at all into her to begin with, and the only reason he's staying is because she has some sort of unique feature. She's really quite a bland female, nothing special about her appearance at all, except for the fact that her breasts are fairly larger than normal."

John shakes his head, a little smile played across his face and gives a light chuckle. After all these years Sherlock's deductions never failed to impress. "Glad to see a bit of head trauma didn't have an effect on your deductive skills."

At that, Sherlock quickly sits in a chair opposite to John, their eyes meeting. Sherlock, his face completely serious, asks "am I always like this? Always thinking, always deducing, my brain never once taking a break? It hurts, John. It hurts to think but I can't help but do it anyways. These gears in my head, they're exhausting. Is this who I am all the time?"

John's face falls a bit. It's a bit heartbreaking to see Sherlock this way, all brilliant and snark but at the same time helpless and confused and without a clue of who he actually was. It's always a terrible feeling to not know who you are. "Unfortunately, yes." And then he tries to crack a bit of a smile. "You're just that rude and unpleasant as well."

Sherlock doesn't seem to find this funny. He hardly even blinks in reaction, and instead leans forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees and asks John another question. "What do I do?" A pause. "For a living, I mean. Do I have a job? Or am I just your freeloader?"

John presses his lips into a thin line before he speaks. "No no, if anything I'm your freeloader. You're a…detective."

"A detective?" Sherlock questions, as if that couldn't be right.

"A consulting detective. The only one in the world."

"Well what the hell does that mean?" Oh bless him, the poor confused bloke, John thinks to himself. It's terrible of him to think, but he does it anyways, that he rather enjoys this disheveled confused Sherlock. Sherlock, who had always been so sure, so full of himself, so certain of everything, suddenly having doubts about who he was in the first place. It was deathly sad, of course, but at the same time a relief. John would be glad when Sherlock regained his memories, but deep down in his heart he knew there was a part of him that would miss this helpless look on the great detective's face, though he'd never admit it. He only wished he could take a picture. He might not get a chance to see this expression again.

They sat there together in silence for a long while, John with his good arm on the armrest and his imprisoned cast in his lap with his gaze towards the window as Sherlock only stayed motionless, never once taking his eyes off John.

And then Sherlock spoke again. "Pictures."

"Pardon?" John asks, caught a bit off guard by Sherlock's sudden voice.

"Surely we've taken pictures over the years," Sherlock elaborates. "If I might see them, I might be able to develop more of a sense to our friendship. As it stands right now we're quite opposites and it baffles me as to how we've come to be friends."

John thinks a bit, before piping up. "Oh!" He's up on two feet and heading towards his bedroom in a blink of an eye. "Yes of course, my laptop. I've got loads saved up there. Most of them courtesy of Lestrade."

"Who?"

"Never mind for now." John grabs the laptop off his desk and is back in the main room in a flash. He hands the computer to Sherlock, who takes it without hesitation.

Sherlock turns it on, and after a while, frowns.

"What's wrong?" John asks.

"It's password protected," Sherlock answers as-a-matter-of-factly, as if John was a moron and he should have known Sherlock wouldn't have been able to open it.

John's face fell again. It seemed to do that a lot lately. Yes of course, he had forgotten that Sherlock probably didn't remember his password. He probably didn't have much to go on to guess it again, either. So John slipped the laptop out of Sherlock's hands just long enough to type in the password and hand it back.

Finding the pictures was easy. There was only one folder of pictures, and they weren't exactly hiding. Sherlock opens the folder and begins scanning the images before him. His face stays stoic and emotionless for quite a while, but eventually his eyebrows furrow and his lips press tightly together. "John, what in the world are these?"

John takes a step behind Sherlock to peer over his shoulder. The pictures are all dark and slightly blurred. Sherlock's face is never visible, always out of view or turned around, and half the time John's face is obscured. They're both at crime scenes, evident by the yellow caution tape present in nearly all the photos. "Oh, those. Like I said, most of these are courtesy of Lestrade. You're not exactly photogenic, it's so hard to get pictures of you. These are all crime scene shots, most of them shot by Anderson."

"Who?"

John wrinkles his nose. "Don't worry about him."

Sherlock continues sifting through photos, John watching at his back. They were all the same, really, and pretty unclear so the most information Sherlock could get was that John apparently went to crime scenes with him. He was starting to give up hope of finding any domestic photos that might reveal more about his friendship with Doctor John Watson, when he was greeted by a sudden change of lighting. There was a new picture before him, this one obviously different from the rest. It wasn't a crime scene but the interior of a room, this room to be exact, there were several people in the photo, only John and Mycroft of which Sherlock recognized, and nobody was wearing dreary dark clothing or protective blue crime scene scrubs. No, they're all dressed rather nicely, Sherlock and John included.

The next picture is of the same scenery, but of Sherlock and John only. They're facing each other, obviously engrossed in a conversation. Behind him, Sherlock hears John hitch a breath.

The following image is of the two of them again, and Sherlock frowns a bit at this one. They're hugging here, and hardly in a platonic manner, John's arms around Sherlock's neck and his legs nearly off the ground like he had flung himself onto Sherlock.

"That's…" John begins, but is cut off when Sherlock moves to the next photo.

Oh, this one. This is the photo that really does it. John and Sherlock are the main focal point yet again, and this photo seems to be chronologically next after the previous. Their bodies are pressed together, John's arms still tightly wound around Sherlock's, and their lips are connected. They're kissing. Sherlock is rather shocked.

John is quick to reach his arm forward to shut the cover of the laptop, but Sherlock's hand grabs his wrist to prevent him from doing so. "No," he growls, his voice deep and husky. He feels John tense beneath his touch as he moves to the next picture.

John protests verbally, but does not move. In this still, John is giving Sherlock what is obviously a light peck on the lips, their fingers intertwined with one other so that the glaringly matching metal bands on their respective ring fingers are clearly visible to the camera. Suddenly, everything clicks. Sherlock remembers the cool ring across his face after just waking up in the hospital. He had concluded John was married. As he lets his eyes gaze towards John's hand, still tightly gripping the laptop, the same ring glistens around his finger.

"Sherlock," John whispers.

In response, Sherlock swallows slowly and stares straight at the image before him.

"We're not just flatmates, are we John?"


	3. Chapter 3

It's time for a little chat, John suspects. He takes the laptop from Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock doesn't protest. He sets it to the side without bothering to close it, and walks back around to sit in his armchair across from Sherlock.

He stares straight at the consulting detective while Sherlock in contrast can't seem to bear to make eye contact with him. He turns his head to stare at the laptop screen beside him. "What are we?" he whispers, as if he's unsure he wants to hear the answer.

John licks his lips nervously. He doesn't answer for a long time before he finally nods. "Engaged."

"For how long?"

"Year and a half."

Sherlock doesn't answer. John tries to read his face, but finds that as per usual, he can't. That's what always frustrated him the most about their relationship. Not that Sherlock was a dick or that he was a perfectionist or the fact that he dissected dead mice in the kitchen next to the stew, but the fact that in all the years since they've met John has never been able to truly read Sherlock's emotions. It always tugged at his heartstrings in the most painful way. He adverts his eyes down to his feet.

"And those photos were?" Sherlock asks.

"Our engagement party."

"When was the wedding scheduled for?"

"Yesterday." It almost pains John to say it.

More silence.

"You're wearing your ring," Sherlock points out.

John nods. "Yes of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Where's mine?"

"What?"

"Don't be daft," Sherlock scoffs. "I was wearing a ring in the photos, and I'm not now. Where is it?"

"In the bedroom. They wouldn't let you wear it in the hospital, metal interfering with the machines and all, so I took it home and put it safely away."

The bedroom. Sherlock didn't have to ask if they shared. That much was obvious. There was another long period of nearly painful awkward silence.

"Listen Sherlock, I-."

"Don't speak," Sherlock cuts him off. He turns his head to the opposite side, still avoiding eye contact, and spots something on the couch. It's a violin. "I can play the violin," he suddenly remarks, changing the subject completely.

John looks up, almost as if he's startled. "You remember how?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock all but sneers, standing up to reach over and grab the instrument. He turns away from John to look out the window. He takes the bow in his right hand and tucks the violin under his chin. His fingers graze over the strings momentarily, almost hesitant, but the moment the bow touches a beautiful melody emits into the atmosphere.

John sits back comfortable in his armchair, letting himself become intoxicated by the sweet sound, and before he knows it, he's slowly drifting off into sleep.

* * *

"How long?" John asks.

"I don't know. That's all up to him," the doctor responds. John's just gotten his cast removed and Sherlock's getting tested to make sure the only major damage his head injury had caused was the amnesia.

John clenches his jaw, trying to look like he's unaffected but clearly failing miserably. If it's anything he's ever envied Sherlock for, it's his ability to mask emotions so profoundly. Sherlock is a locked diary and John is an open book. It's nearly common knowledge.

The doctor sighs. "It's going to be hard. A real battle, perhaps the hardest in your life."

"I was in the army."

"That's not what I mean."

There's a pause, and then John repeats, "How long?"

"How long until what?"

"How long until he loves me again?"

The doctor takes John's arm and bends it. "You have to be patient, John. Stand with him. Help him to remember. There's no other way. There really is no predicting here. Like it or not, sometimes victims of amnesia turn out to be completely different people from who they were originally."

"Not Sherlock."

"You never know. Don't get your hopes up."


	4. Chapter 4

On the outside, everything seems normal.

On the inside, John Watson is slowly crumbling.

They've separated bedrooms. Although still technically engaged, they both agreed that sleeping in the same bed when Sherlock hardly knew who he was wouldn't be for the best, although John really wanted to do nothing but to wake up with their bodies naked and tangled.

Sherlock's back on cases. His first after the accident was a nice lighthearted kidnapping, the daughter of an American ambassador in which the kidnappers were arrogant enough to leave a nice calling card that landed them in prison. He met Lestrade and decided he wasn't one to be hated. Anderson showed up to work the case as well, and tried to convince Sherlock that they were actually best friends, to which Sherlock made a face and rather blatantly called him a liar, informing him that he would never have befriended someone so dimwitted and pea-brained.

John has hope. As each day comes around Sherlock begins to act more and more like himself. In the beginning he was actually quite tidy, picking up after his experiments for John's benefit, it seems, seeing as they were pretty much complete strangers. But things fell back into the old routine with Sherlock leaving his scalps in the sink and the hydrochloric acid in the freezer and poor John being the first to discover it all. Yes, John has hope. It's just a matter of time, he thinks to himself, before Sherlock waltzes into the bedroom and offers himself up to John, apologizing for not doing it sooner, for making John wait for so long. John will forgive him of course, greet him with open arms, and they'll engross themselves into some fantastic makeup sex, and then one day, not too far from now, they'll be standing at an altar saying "till death do us part."

Not today though.

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"Not hungry. Can't you see I'm busy? Shut up and let me concentrate." Sherlock is looking through a microscope straight on the dining table. John's long since give up telling him to get his experiments off the table because we eat there you know. Sherlock's hands move to adjust the microscope settings and John can plainly see his bare fingers. He'd gotten so used to seeing that golden band around Sherlock's ring finger. Sherlock doesn't wear it anymore. He doesn't mind that John does, but to him it makes very little sense.

"Come on." John pushes the plate of toast towards him. "Maybe it'll jog your memory."

Sherlock looks up from his studies and gives John an odd look. "You don't honestly believe that, being a man of medicine yourself."

John groaned and took a seat at the table across Sherlock. "At this point I'd try ritual voodoo if it meant you got your memories back."

Surprisingly, Sherlock pushes the microscope away instead of instantly turned back to his experiment. He seems oddly curious in John this morning. "Are you really so desperate to resume this…relationship we apparently have?"

"Of course," John very nearly snaps back. "Why wouldn't I be? We're engaged, for crying out loud, and it's pitiful that you remember none of it! We should be married right now, for Christ's sake! Do you have any idea how much effort it took me to cancel the whole thing? Revoke all the invitations, apologize to everyone, I'm lucky the restaurant we rented for the reception gave us a refund because that was bloody expensive!" He didn't even realize he was seething until he caught sight of Sherlock's almost shocked expression. Like he had never seen John this angry. Which of course was false, this was only the beginning of anger, nothing Sherlock hadn't seen when they were having just a small lover's quarrel, but of course Sherlock wouldn't have remembered that.

"I'm sorry," John immediately apologized, burying his face into his hands, his voice muffled. "I'm so sorry. It's not your fault. You never asked for this…disaster. I'm sorry. Jesus. I'm sorry."

Sherlock was at a loss. He had no idea how to go about comforting the disheveled man before him. He reached out his arm, intent on giving John a good old pat on the back, but retreated quickly, realizing how stiff and juvenile that seemed. It was true. He didn't ask for this. He didn't ask to slam his head through a window and lose memory of everyone important to him. He didn't ask to forget John. John Watson, a brilliant man if Sherlock would never admit it out loud. His love for Sherlock so obvious in his body language, and judging by the photos he had seen, at one point in time Sherlock had obviously loved him back. But the memories were gone. Oh, he would give anything to remember again. John had such lovely hands. He wondered what those hands would feel like on his skin.

In the end, Sherlock stands up and coldly leaves, his mind becoming entangled with itself yet again, leaving the brilliant John Watson to sob all alone for the first time in years.

* * *

They had been following a chain of bank robberies for a week now. Just last night Sherlock had managed to figure out the culprit somehow by the way the safes were repeatedly bashed in. They had pursued the suspect, but had ultimately lost him down an alleyway that wouldn't have been an issue a few weeks ago but it seemed like his mental map of every street of London had been wiped from Sherlock's memory unwillingly as well.

That was the first time John had witnessed Sherlock break down since the accident. He had surprisingly been very calm about losing his memories, a bit pained, but overall he was able to act as per usual. Today though, after they had lost a criminal because Sherlock couldn't remember which street went where, he fell to his knees in the middle of the road, pressed his forehead to the ground, and let out the most un-Sherlock-like scream John had ever heard.

"It's okay," John had told him, attempting to pull the detective up by the arm.

Sherlock had thrown John off him, hissing "no it's not! It's not okay!" over and over and over again until John was sure there were beads of liquid forming out the corners of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock had gripped the sides of his head and trembled, shouting out "Why can't I remember, John? What can't I remember anything?"

John didn't calm him down. Sherlock kept his emotions in a bottle. A little eruption now and then was good for his health. He needed this. So John let him scream out into the night. Only him. Only John could see him like this. No one else. And John let him scream until Sherlock turned back into Sherlock and was able to stand up, brush himself off, and look as if nothing had ever happened.

But boy, were they on a roll tonight.

"He went this way," John shouts, pointing to the left. The both of them turn the corner and run after the suspect, hot on his tail. John feels his breath begin to give out, and Sherlock passes him, but the adrenaline keeps John's legs moving, chasing after the both of them.

Sherlock practically throws himself at the culprit, both of them tumbling over to the ground. Sherlock keeps him pinned for a while, but then it turns into a wrestling match.

John hurriedly comes to Sherlock's aide, grabbing the suspect's wrists and keeping him writhing on the ground.

They stay like that, battling with all their strength, until Lestrade shows up.

The criminal is of course, handcuffed, and Lestrade offers his thanks.

Both John and Sherlock are still breathing heavily and uneven when they get back to the flat, thrill still pumping rapidly through their veins as smoothly as the blood itself, and the moment they set foot into their main room, John's legs give out and he falls, taking Sherlock down with him.

At first, they're shocked, but then they catch a glimpse of each other's stupid faces and both erupt into laughter at the same time.

"Off, off," Sherlock managed in-between giggles. "You're crushing me."

"Christ, sorry I'm so fat," John says sarcastically as best he can with only half a properly functioning lung, but he rolls off Sherlock and the scramble to their feet together, using each other's bodies as leverage to pull themselves off the floor.

They both stand there for a moment, catching their breath and grinning like idiots. Coats are shed.

"Oh, that was exciting," John remarks.

"Indeed," is Sherlock's response.

And then they're kissing.

Or rather, John's shoving Sherlock against the wall and forcing their lips together like their lives depended on it. Sherlock lets out a gasp, obviously not having anticipated John's actions, and he immediately pulls a hand up to the middle of John's chest to push them apart, but decides against it and the land just stays there, feeling the rapid beat of John's heart.

It's not a nice kiss. It's hard, sloppy, like a pair of cannibalistic wild animals. Tongues down each other's throats, growling rumbling from each of them. John grazes his teeth at Sherlock's bottom lip, making the taller man groan a bit against their lips, though whether it was from pain or pleasure neither probably knew.

John presses his body into Sherlock's, rolling their lower bodies together while never once breaking the kiss. His hands fly to Sherlock's hips, gripping the bony pelvis tightly in every way he knows Sherlock loves. Sherlock moans against the kiss, and his sounds go straight to John's crotch. Sherlock is usually never this vocal. It's a surprise, and a rather nice one, John might add. Oh, he could get used to this.

John breathes out, grinding their pelvises together in the most pleasurable way possible, breaking the kiss to latch onto Sherlock's skin elsewhere. Tiny kisses along Sherlock's jawline. Over those beautiful cheekbones. Down his neck. Sherlock allows himself to throw his head back to give John more access to his flesh. Both hands snake around to tangle themselves in John's hair.

"John," Sherlock involuntarily strains out.

"Sherlock," John whispers against his collarbone. Thumbs hook beneath Sherlock's waistband, touching the bare skin of Sherlock's hips.

Suddenly, Sherlock snaps back to reality. He pushes John away at arms distance and their eyes meet. Sherlock looks positively mortified and John just looks bewildered.

"No," Sherlock breathes out as best he can.

It's such a simple word, yet it can mean so much. Such ambiguous was the word. No. No what? No, don't touch me? No, don't let me love you? No, go away and never come back?

"I can't," Sherlock continues, eyeing John's expression like a hawk. "I…I don't know you."

"Yes you do," John answers, grabbing Sherlock's upper arms. "Of course you do. I'm your fiancé. I love you. You love me."

"No."

That word again. It's driving John mad.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, please," he croaks, the grip on Sherlock's arms tightening. "Please remember. Remember me, dammit!"

Sherlock looks at John's face of devastation, as if he'd just witnessed the apocalypse. It hurts. It hurts both of them. John can't bear the fact that the love of his life knew nothing about him and Sherlock couldn't bear the look on John's face. So he left. He slipped out of John's grasp, and John let him, and he somberly marched into his own bedroom.

Just a few weeks ago a snog like that would have been a simple "hello honey I'm home." John didn't know what the hell that was.

John fell to his knees facing the wall and just sat there staring into nothing.

Not even bothering to change out the clothes he'd been sweating in, Sherlock laid sprawled out on his bed, the bed that, before the accident, he evidently had shared with John. John Watson, the fiancé of nearly two years he never knew he had. He held his left hand up to his face, his ring finger bare. He vaguely remembered John saying something about keeping a ring in safe keeping somewhere in a drawer. He sat up abruptly and strode towards his desk. He didn't remember what was in this desk, he never had enough interest to pull apart the drawers, but today he did.

He found it the first drawer he opened. There, tucked away in plain sight, a little black box. Sherlock hesitated to touch it, but ended up taking it out anyways. When he opened it, he was greeted by a golden band, an exact match to John's, except for the fact that it was smaller. Sherlock's fingers were skinnier, after all. He removed the ring from the box and stared at it long and hard, but no matter what, he had no recollection of it. He remembered nothing.

How did he and John fare as a couple? It was evident they were very nearly polar opposites, it's a wonder they had anything in common. Who started the relationship, Sherlock wondered? Who proposed? Who initiates kisses? Well, that question might have been answered just a while ago. Sherlock closes his eyes and he can see John's lips on his again, shoving him into the wall and grinding their pelvises together. A fresh new memory that he can remember. He nonchalantly slips the ring onto his finger and secretly marvels how well it fits on him. It feels strange, though, and he wonders if wearing this band will ever become normal for him again. He brings the hand up and ghosts it over his lips, feeling John's hot touch as best as he can, and perhaps he even smiles a bit.


	5. Chapter 5

John's at the surgery when the stranger walks in.

Well. Not a stranger.

"You're Mycroft." Sherlock doesn't ask, more like confirms.

"I am."

"You're my brother."

"I am." Mycroft scrunches up his face. "Unfortunately."

They sit across from each other in the main room, both stiff and awkward and not at all brotherly. Although something tells Sherlock this is how their meetings go usually.

"I haven't seen you since that day at the hospital," Sherlock points out. "You don't seem much interested in me."

"Oh the contrary," Mycroft counters. "I've been keeping close touch with John. He's been periodically informing me of your progress."

"And you couldn't be bothered to oversee my progress yourself?"

"Completely unnecessary."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What is it exactly that you do? Judging by your state of dress and your permanently stoic nature, I'm guessing you're run a small part of the British government?"

"I am the British government." Mycroft gives a smirk, which quickly fades when he remembers Sherlock wouldn't get the joke. He clears his throat. "Really though Sherlock, you guess? You've never been one to guess before."

"I've never had my head slammed through a cab window before."

"Touché."

They sit in silence for a while, sometimes avoiding eye contact and sometime staring directly at each other, like they were burning holes into each other's faces. And then Sherlock asks another question. "How do John and I get along?"

Mycroft nearly scoffs. "I should say well, considering your marriage was right around the corner."

"That much is obvious," Sherlock says flatly. "But did I love him?"

"Is that even a question that needs to be asked?"

"No."

"Really, Sherlock. Asking questions you know the answer to. I think your little accident damaged a bit more than just your memories."

"I haven't lost an ounce of my intelligence," Sherlock hisses.

Mycroft lets out a hearty round of laughter.

Sherlock turns his gaze to the window. "What do I do with him now?"

His supposed brother sighs. "Whatever you wish. You could drop the engagement right now if it pains you so much."

"No, no," Sherlock answers. "That'll break John into hysterics. We'll have to drag him away to an asylum."

"Then go ahead and marry him."

Sherlock turns back to his brother in shock. "That's preposterous. I hardly know the bloke."

"Of course you do," Mycroft tells him. "You've known him for years. You just don't remember."

"That's the bloody point." Sherlock can hear his voice rise.

"Whether you like it or not, until you break it off, you're still technically engaged. He's still technically your fiancé. Naturally, you could just go on with your life like this, avoiding the issue and pretending it doesn't exist. Stuck forever in the awkward perpetual loop in which he wears his engagement ring and you don't."

Sherlock sneers. "Thanks, I'll do just that."

He wonders if he ever hated Mycroft this much before the accident.

* * *

John opens the door and has to duck to prevent a dart being thrown at his face, making him very nearly drop the groceries.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he cries out in exasperation. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

"Bored," is Sherlock's answer. Lestrade had called earlier but he had no interest in the trivial domestic abuse case.

John shuts the door and nearly has to do a double take at the picture hanging on the back. A picture of Mycroft, pinned to the door by a series of darts all conveniently stabbed through the face's eye. John rolls his eyes. "I see you met Mycroft."

"That man is the epitome of insolence."

John snorts. "Funny, he might say the same about you." He brings the groceries into the kitchen to put them away properly.

Sherlock follows him. He doesn't help, instead intent on staring at John shuffle about. "Are we always like this? My brother and I?"

John nonchalantly pushes over a jar of eyeballs to make room for the milk in the fridge. "You two? Definitely. I'm surprised he even showed up like I asked. Most of the time you two refuse to see each other until absolutely necessary."

"I see."

"What did you talk about, then? I can't imagine anything pleasant," John says, just about finishing up with the groceries.

Sherlock hesitates for a bit, and then decides John didn't need to know all the particulars. "I asked if he'd be so kind as to share some childhood memories."

"Oh? Did he?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Naturally not. He deemed it stupid and unnecessary, and he was quite glad I've been wiped my memory of my childhood." He pauses for a second. "John, I don't know if I have parents."

John rearranges things in the fridge to make more room for the vegetables. "You've got a mother. I never knew about your father, neither you nor Mycroft seem keen to talk about him."

"Why hasn't she called?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's just that motherly sense that she knows you're all right. Or maybe she's getting all her information from Mycroft. So. Is that all you two discussed, then?"

"No. We discussed you."

John freezes, halting any actions he had been doing with his arms, to twist his neck around and face Sherlock. "Me?"

Sherlock crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yes, you. Us. You and me. Mycroft seems worried about you and he believes it's all my fault."

"And he expressed his opinion so?"

"Verbally? No. Body language? Yes. He thinks the best solution for you would be for us to get married straight away despite the fact that I don't know who the hell you are."

John sighs and stands up slowly. "Well, I don't want that."

"Precisely what I told him. A marriage like that would crumble in an instant. But Mycroft seems to care more about your happiness than mine."

"Sherlock." John takes a nearly hesitant step towards him. "I want to marry you." Another step. "I really, truly do, even if you've lost your memory. This…accident, it doesn't change how I feel about you whatsoever. But, before we do anything, I want it to be mutual. I'm thinking of your happiness. I won't marry you until you want it too. And I'll wait. I'll wait forever and beyond across seven thousand galaxies."

"Even if it hurts you in the meantime." It's not a question.

"Pain is temporary."

"Even if it turns out I can never feel that way towards you ever again."

"Sherlock, don't." John shakes his head. "Don't talk about this now. Please." He brushes past Sherlock on his way out the kitchen, leaving the detective standing there wondering when exactly his life had gone wrong. It was quite a difficult task, seeing as he didn't remember 95% of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's progress is phenomenal. Within a week of the bank robbing incident, he had rememorized the streets of London and was chasing suspects all around the city like nobody's business yet again.

On the other hand, his relationship with John Watson hadn't improved much past friendly acquaintances who happen to be sharing a flat. Sherlock's been trying so hard to remember their lives together, but that film in his head is still out of service and whenever he tries thinking about it, all he can see is a never ending spiral of black nothingness at the back of his mind.

John is in his armchair, peacefully reading over the newspaper, only growing slightly more and more irritated every time he hears Sherlock pacing past him. The insufferable genius is bored again, as per usual, and there isn't a lovely serial murder for him to solve. Confound those dammed criminals, John found himself thinking for what seems like the first time in his life. How dare they stay low and not go about killing people. How dare the crime rate be decreasing. How could they live with themselves like this?

Sherlock's stomping grows ever so louder the more bored he gets. Louder, louder, until John's afraid he might actually stomp a hole through the floor and throws his newspaper down in exasperation. "That's it. Sherlock, get your coat. We're going out."

"Out where?" Sherlock asks, though he doesn't hesitate to grab his coat. Anywhere is better than here, he figures.

"St Bartholomew's.

"Where? Oh yes, the hospital."

"Yes. Come along then, we'll see if Molly has a nice dead body for you to destroy."

"Who?"

Molly turns out to be a mousey blonde who works at the morgue. As Sherlock marvels the deceased body before him, she stands awkwardly to the side, her face strained as if she is trying but failing to make conversation. Sherlock pokes the body relentlessly and then she finally musters up the courage to speak. "So…Sherlock, how are you?"

"I'm sorry, I seem to have no recollection of you," Sherlock answers abruptly, never once taking his eyes off the bruised body sprawled out on the examination table. "Refresh my memory?"

"Molly," she answers. "Molly Hooper. I work here."

"Obviously." Sherlock takes a scalpel and cuts a clean line across the body's chest. "And our relationship?"

"I'm your girlfriend."

At this, Sherlock does look up from his work to stare straight at Molly with a genuinely confused expression.

"I'm only joking," Molly elaborates, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I know you and John are…" her voice trails off when she sees Sherlock's face tighten. "I mean, are you two? Still?"

"Only in name."

She nods. "I see."

Sherlock sticks his hand into the cut he's made in the dead man's flesh as if it's no big deal, and to both he and Molly, it really wasn't. He starts yanking out guts with the intent to study them, working efficiently and silently. Molly watches in pure fascination. And then Sherlock speaks. "How did John and I get along? Were we…happy?"

He sees a smile start to curl at the ends of her lips. "Oh I suppose just as happy as any other couple. You both bickered a lot, but that's to be expected, as opposite as you both are." She pauses. "Although I have to admit I hadn't seen you two much since the engagement party. You stopped coming here after a while. Distracted, I guess. But from what I remember, you seemed happier than before."

"Than before what?"

She shrugs her shoulders and stutters a bit. "W-well, for the longest time you looked so sad when he wasn't around. After you two…came out, I could see a smile on your face even if he wasn't present."

Sherlock blinks. "I see." So he was a sad man. A sad man, and John Watson made him whole. "Thank you, Molly."

* * *

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

It's a quiet day. After a roundabout with a serial rapist, a little peace and quiet is just what John needs. He's in his armchair with his laptop, blogging about their latest escapade, and Sherlock is sprawled out across the sofa, his eyes fixated on the ceiling above him as if it's the most interesting thing in the universe. "Tell me about the day we first met."

John snorts, not taking his eyes off his computer screen. "Oh who cares? It's such a boring story anyways, you wouldn't want to hear."

"Of course I do," Sherlock counters. "You're an interesting person."

John sighs. He doesn't stop typing though, even as he speaks. "I was looking for a flatmate when I was introduced to you. You deduced my military, financial, and familial statuses and the fact that I had a psychosomatic limp and I shot a serial murderer, nothing much to say there."

"You shot a criminal?" Sherlock asks in utter awe, as if the thought of John shooting anybody was unheard of despite the obvious fact that he was ex-military.

"To save your life, no less," John adds, finished with his blog and shutting the cover of his laptop.

"What on earth was I doing to make that necessary?" Sherlock asks.

"Committing suicide."

Silence.

Sherlock parts his lips to say something, but John cuts him off immediately. "It was a joke. You didn't actually attempt real suicide until much later." And when Sherlock opens his mouth again, he's cut off again. "That was a joke too."

Sherlock has a feeling it wasn't. But he can tell John doesn't want to talk about it, so he drops the subject.

That's when Sherlock's phone beeps. He fishes it out of his pocket to reveal a message from Lestrade. It only takes him a second before he's springing off the couch like it's Christmas morning and hurrying towards his shoes. "Come quickly, John," he demands excitedly. "Murder. Coldblooded murder and not a trace of evidence to be found. It must be my birthday."

Of course, that only reminds him that he actually can't remember when his birthday is.

* * *

It's past midnight when they slip through the door, trying their very hardest not to wake Mrs. Hudson. It had been a disappointing evening for them, Sherlock having solved the case but the culprit being too quick, too agile even for him. Lestrade ended up running over the suspect, completely on accident of course, and death came too quick for Sherlock to have a confrontation. Still, another murderer was off the street of London and that's all anyone could really hope for.

Sherlock nearly collapses onto the floor, he was so tired. He hadn't slept for days prior so this weakness was inevitable, his mind always up, always thinking, in that painful way he hated. He didn't know how he managed to survive like this before the accident. It must have been awful.

John grabs Sherlock by the waist to support him as they walk to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock flops onto the bed almost immediately, a nearly orgasmic sigh of relief leaving his slightly parted lips when his back touched the soft, cool sheets. He closes his eyes, completely aware of John's lingering presence beside him.

John stands there, just staring, in a way that might have been almost stalkerish out of context. He stands there for an extended amount of time, and Sherlock can't seem to fall asleep. And then there is a hand on his cheek. A hand, frozen from the cold outside, and a cool metal band rubbing gently across his cheekbones. He keeps his eyes closed, as if he were really asleep, and it took him all the way back to his first memories. The first thing he remembered after waking up in that dreary hospital weeks ago. The situation was very nearly the same, but there was a certain level of added intimacy because Sherlock knew who that ring against his flesh was for. Him. He feels the bed dip as John leaned forward, and there was hot breath hovering over his face. He can smell John, that same musky scent that couldn't be described as anything other than just John.

A pair of lips descend upon him, and unlike the day they met at the hospital, Sherlock lets it happen. Their lips touch, hardly, as if John was afraid Sherlock would break if he pressed down any harder. Sweet, kind, and soft were John's lips, and Sherlock takes the time to make a mental note about that in the back of his head.

When the lips above him start to retreat, Sherlock realizes he doesn't want that to happen, and he involuntarily raises his arms to take John's face in his hands, nearly startling the man, who obviously thought Sherlock had fallen asleep, perhaps a bit embarrassed that he had been caught in the act of trying to sneak a kiss. But he doesn't protest when Sherlock presses their lips together, harder this time, but with the same level of gentleness. Neither of their mouths part, and they don't have to.

The kiss only lasts for a few seconds, but to the both of them, it's an eternity. An eternity that neither wish had ended, but alas humans need oxygen, and they had to break. Sherlock's arms go limp and fall to his sides, and maybe this time he really is asleep.

John straightens himself back up and gives Sherlock's face one last stroke before he turns to leave the room. It's only then that he slumps into his armchair and wonders what the hell just happened.

Was Sherlock awake the entire time, he wonders to himself? Was he reacting in his sleep? If he was, what did that say about his feelings toward John? Was this it? The moment John had been waiting for since the accident? Was Sherlock finally falling in love with him again? How long? How long would it take? How long until they could sleep in the same bed again? Wear their matching rings proudly to the world? John unconsciously twiddles with the golden band around his finger as he ponders. He was almost proud of his own loyalty. Never once had he ever wondered if he should take the ring off, wondered if it was completely hopeless. He always had hope for Sherlock. Not just hope, but knowledge. He more than hoped they would be a couple again, he knew they would. He smiles to himself, knowing that it's only a matter of time.


	7. Chapter 7

John walks into the main room and lets out a giant yawn, scratching the back of his head sleepily. He finds Sherlock already there, not unusual, getting carried away on John's laptop, again not unusual. Sherlock had learned to decipher John's password again. John had always thought about changing it, but he knew it would be of no use. Sherlock would just figure it out all over again. Plus, back when they were in a proper relationship, it was a strangely intimate thing, both of them knowing a password that nobody else in the world knew about.

Still, there were private things on that laptop. "Sherlock, what have I told you about using your own laptop?" He walks into the kitchen, still much too tired to take the piece of technology out of Sherlock's hands.

"In my bedroom," Sherlock responds without taking his eyes off the screen. "I couldn't be bothered to go fetch it."

John rolls his eyes and starts to prepare some tea. "Breakfast, then?"

"Not hungry."

"Of course." This was their daily routine. Rather domestic, John had to admit, and much like before the accident. It was a comforting thought, and John had to be glad that Sherlock hadn't changed much aside from the fact that he was missing a good chunk of his life story. John had seen much worse, actually. Back in the army he dealt with a patient who had fallen off a cliff and hardly survived. One of his best mates, actually, someone who used to be peppy and optimistic. Upon losing his memories-and a leg, he fell into a dark depression and ended up offing himself before his discharge.

John sets a plate of eggs next to Sherlock anyways. And to his surprise, he witnesses Sherlock look up from his work and reach over for a fork. Perhaps for once Sherlock would be able to eat without John pestering him about it.

But alas the world does not revolve around John and his happiness, for Sherlock's phone goes off. The detective immediately drops the silverware to read a text. It takes all but seconds before he's up on his feet and nearly dancing around the house. "It's Lestrade," he informs John. "Serial murder. Looks like suicide but there's no way it can be. Isn't it fantastic?"

"Shouldn't you eat first?"

"Who can eat at a time like this?"

John sighs, but puts up a defeated smile. At least Sherlock is happy. In the end, that's all that really matters to John.

* * *

"And the murderer?" Lestrade asks, standing over the dead body like it's no big deal.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate to respond whatsoever. "Six feet two, large working hands, heavy duty boots at least ten years old, slightly scruffy beard, and standing right there."

Lestrade and John turn their heads to where Sherlock is pointing, among a patch of spectators, to a bulky looking man who fits Sherlock's description perfectly. They exchange awed glances, and then witness the suspect make a run for it.

John and Sherlock are on his tail in a flash.

"The nerve of him coming back to the crime scene," John huffs as they turn the corner.

"They do that sometimes," Sherlock remarks, speeding up a bit. "Reverse psychology. Police usually don't suspect the spectators."

The chase the suspect into a dark series of alleyways, and that's when John's legs start to give out. He curses inwardly to himself as his distance behind Sherlock intensifies. Sherlock is still speeding up, his longer legs able to take larger strides than John however athletic he might be.

Sherlock turns a sharp corner, but the tunnel is too dark and John doesn't even notice, instead running straight ahead. And it isn't until he can't hear Sherlock's footsteps anymore that he realizes he's completely lost. He stops in his tracks and calls out Sherlock's name, but gets no reply. Of course not. If he was pursuing the suspect, Sherlock wouldn't waste an ounce of his breath trying to find John.

That didn't stop John from trying, though. He runs back and forth through the labyrinth of tunnels shouting out Sherlock's name and getting nothing but his own voice echoing off the walls. He knows that if he had memorized London in the way Sherlock had he wouldn't be standing there looking all sorts of confused, but he hadn't, so he could do nothing but wander. He was beginning to wonder if he should give up and just try to find his way back home to wait for Sherlock there.

But then he hears a shot. The sound of a gun being fired. And Sherlock didn't carry guns.

Panicking, John screams out "Sherlock!" with more enthusiasm than ever before, and makes no hesitation to start off running towards the bang.

He turns the corner to find Sherlock slumped against the wall, and for a moment, John's whole life flashes before his eyes as if he's dying. "Oh god," he mumbles to himself. "oh dear lord, Jesus, no, fuck, please no," as he stumbles towards the shadowy figure of the man he loves.

"John," Sherlock breathes out as John approaches him. "John, what are you waiting for? He's getting away!"

To hell with that, John thought to himself, kneeling in front of Sherlock and nearly ripping the coat off him. "Are you okay?" he asks frantically. "Are you shot? Did he shoot you? Oh god. Where did he shoot you?"

"I haven't been shot, look at me. We got into a row. We struggled, I fell and hit my head a bit. He shot at me but it missed, he has lousy aim. Go chase after him, John! Or for God's sake help me up and I'll finish the matter myself."

"You hit your head!" John cried out in horror, as if the thought of Sherlock hitting his head was a more concerning matter than getting shot. "You hit your head!" he repeated, as if repetition would make anything better. Suddenly all John could think about was Sherlock's head and the memories stored it in. What if he lost it all again? All the progress they had made, what if Sherlock just forgot it all again? John wasn't sure he could have bared it.

"Yes yes, I'm fine," Sherlock tries to say, but is cut off by John's panicked questions.

"What's your name?"

"I said I-."

"Do you know who you are?"

"Look-,"

"Do you know what day it is? How many fingers am I holding up? What's my name?"

"John," Sherlock sighs in exasperation, grabbing John's forearms firmly. "John, look at me, I'm fine. I'm fine, no need to get so hot over it."

John shook his head. "No," he says. "No. I have to make a big deal out of this. You could have died! You've got to be more careful, Sherlock! We've made so much progress, and it's like you're okay with throwing everything we've worked for away!"

"I'm not," Sherlock retorts. "I swear I'm not." He sees John's lips part to say something else, but he instantly clamps a hand over John's mouth to muffle the sounds. "I know how tedious this has been, for the both of us. Why would I deliberately try to waste it all?"

John's response is to breathe a hot puff of air into Sherlock's hand.

They stay like that for a long while, just the two of them in a dark abandoned alleyway where they can hardly see each other's eyes, in the midst of the silence that would have been almost eerily silent if it wasn't for the sound of their mismatched rugged breaths as they both try to calm down. Sherlock's hand hasn't left John's mouth yet, and neither of them seem to mind.

John tries to understand. He knows Sherlock lives for adventure. Sherlock without crimes to solve wasn't a Sherlock at all, and John knows that, but he still can't help but fear for the detective's life. Sherlock is just too careless, and John dreads the day it gets him in a sore spot. John's mind unwillingly flashes towards an illusion, standing over Sherlock's coma-induced body or worse, his grave. He'd already had to bury Sherlock once, he's much rather prefer not doing so a second time.

"Home then," Sherlock breathes, his voice low and demanding.

John only nods in agreement.

* * *

"John, my head hurts."

"I'd assume so. Smacking it against a bit of concrete doesn't sound too pleasant."

* * *

When they enter the flat, Sherlock starts to remove his coat, only to have John grab it and pull it the rest of the way off. It's a friendly gesture, he's sure, but there's still that element of intimacy associated with it.

"Sit," John says. "I'll fix your head."

Sherlock lets out a bit of a snort. "Good luck with that."

John laughs at that as Sherlock sits. He walks around behind Sherlock and hesitantly raises his fingers. The pads of his appendages gently touch the dark curls on Sherlock's head, but other than that, they stay completely still.

"John?"

Right. Massage. John softly rubs into Sherlock's scalp, the hair beneath his fingers silky smooth and just absolutely perfect. Three months ago Sherlock had wondered aloud if he should cut his hair and John had nearly punched him in the face for even thinking of it. He loved running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, caressing the locks in the most loving way possible. Much like he was doing now.

It feels nice, Sherlock can't deny. He closes his eyes and lets John work, the doctor holding onto his temples and rubbing in slow circular patterns, working into the flesh deliciously. John can feel Sherlock relax beneath his fingertips, feel Sherlock's jaw unclench, hear Sherlock's slow and deliberate exhale. Was he content like this, John wondered? Of course he was. Sherlock wasn't one to feign happiness. If he was displeased with John's actions he would have voiced his opinions loud and clear. And yet here he was practically melting under John's touch.

"Feeling better?" John asks, rubbing the side of Sherlock's head where a giant purple bruise is beginning to finally unveil itself where Sherlock's head met the concrete.

Sherlock lets out a "hmmmm" in response, tilting his head back against John's torso to relax himself even further.

John allows his fingers to trace the outlines of Sherlock's glorious cheekbones, perhaps one of John's favorite things about him. Those cheekbones, high and nearly razor sharp and yet they felt beautiful to John's hands. Looking down he could watch Sherlock's chest rise and fall with each breath slow and deliberate. Oh yes, Sherlock was relaxing. To him it must be heaven. Sherlock had hardly been able to relax an inch since the accident, hardly able to shut his brain off long enough to get a decent amount of sleep each night.

John's hands trail down Sherlock's cheeks slowly down to his neck, stroking the soft flesh of his throat in a way that told the both of them that this wasn't a massage anymore. But it probably didn't matter much. Sherlock's pounding headache was just about gone, and it felt nice. Sherlock felt like he could fall asleep like this.

When John trails his fingers down Sherlock's clavicle, the tips slipping just under the collar of Sherlock's button-down shirt, Sherlock lets out a barely audible sigh of pleasure. He reaches an arm up to grab John's left forearm to steady himself, as if he was afraid he'd fall out of the chair if he didn't. John doesn't seem to mind this action, in fact he seems to encourage it by slipping the fingers of his right hand further down Sherlock's shirt, running over more and more of that hot flesh.

Both of them are silent throughout the ordeal as John calmly strokes up and down Sherlock's chest in the most comforting manner possible. Sherlock seems to be very nearly lost in bliss, his grip on John's left sleeve tightening in some attempt to control himself. His free hand, which had been laying limp at his side the entire time, now rose up to grab John's right wrist, not exactly guiding John's ministrations across his flesh, but just there all the same. John seems to welcome the action.

Sherlock lets out another tiny groan that makes John go nearly weak in the knees. He can't take much more of this. Sherlock's practically orgasmic face, eyes shut tightly, beautifully shaped lips slightly parted, a face that seems so dirty and yet so innocent at the same time. John can't help himself from leaning forward. He presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead, taking in the clean, fresh scent of Sherlock's shampoo. Sherlock doesn't react whatsoever, perhaps too engrossed in the feeling of John's hand on his bare flesh to care at all.

John places a small butterfly-like kiss to the corner of Sherlock's closed eye, and Sherlock twitches a bit in reaction. Not like a bad twitch, though. A sort of good twitch. A sort of "oh god do that again" twitch. But instead, John moves downward, planting a soft kiss to Sherlock's perfect lips. He half-expects it to be awkward and unpleasant, seeing as they're facing in completely different directions, but even upside down their lips seem to be able to interlock like missing pieces of a puzzle.

At first, Sherlock doesn't react to the kiss and John almost wonders if he should pull away, but then Sherlock purses his lips to kiss back and John nearly topples over himself. At first, the kiss is slow and soft, like something a young teenage couple might experience on a first day, innocent and unsure of how far it was okay to go. But then John gets greedy and presses their lips together harder, hungry-more like starved, like they're in a serious relationship, which technically they still are. Sherlock's reaction to this change of pace is to kiss back with equal intensity, much to John's surprise. The grip on John's sleeve is so tight Sherlock's knuckles start to lose their color, not that there was much color in his flesh to begin with.

John slips his right hand out of Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock lets his arm fall back to his side as John's hand cups his soft, pale face. He lifts Sherlock's chin up a bit to kiss at a better, less awkward angle. At this, Sherlock hums against their lips, his voice cracking and practically inaudible, but because there isn't a single sound in the flat besides the sound of lips smacking together, John hears it loud and clear, and it's beautiful.

This is what romance is. John's afraid to ask what this means to Sherlock, but whatever it is, it's a step forward. He didn't want to shoot the gun and assume they were back in a proper relationship since Sherlock hadn't brought up the aspect yet, but regular old flatmates or best friends didn't snog each other like this upside down in the middle of the afternoon.

When they break for air, John rests his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock loosens his grip on John's sleeve and lets go completely, leaving both John's arms free to wrap around Sherlock's chest in a tight hug.

John stands up afterwards, retracting all appendages from Sherlock's body, and Sherlock finds himself almost disappointed. John looks down to see Sherlock's completely disheveled body sprawled out across the chair. His head leaned back, eyes still blissfully closed and his eyebrows deliciously furrowed, his mouth hardly open but open nonetheless. His shirt wrinkled and askew, looking as if he had just spent the time rolling over around on his bed. He liked this look, of Sherlock's imperfection. Of course he liked perfect Sherlock too, the Sherlock with all the buttons in the right place, perfectly clean and sharply dressed, but this Sherlock was the Sherlock nobody else but John could see. A completely hot mess.

And oh how it turned John on so much.


	8. Chapter 8

John sighs. "Sherlock, what the hell have I told you about using my laptop? For God's sake, yours is right over there!"

Sherlock doesn't respond, instead keeping his lips shut and his eyes glued to the screen.

John walks behind him with a cup of coffee in his hand to see what in the world is so interesting to the detective, and his breath hitches when he sees the pictures on the screen. Sherlock is sifting through the photos of their engagement party again. Over and over. There aren't that many pictures for him to look at, they aren't a particularly photogenic couple, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind looking at the same poses over and over again. Remembering. Trying to remember. Trying to make it all click. Remember. Remember John. Remember who they were together.

"Sherlock…" John whispers sympathetically, placing a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing a bit, in a comforting sort of matter. "You don't have to try so hard."

There's a moment of silence. Sherlock moves on to the next picture. In this image, they're standing together, their attention not on each other but on other people. Sherlock seems engrossed in a conversation with Mrs. Hudson while John is talking to-who is that? Lestrade-but Sherlock has his arm unconsciously possessively tightened around John's waist, joining them at the hip. Even after seeing this photo ten thousand times, Sherlock is still taken aback. He did this? Even to himself he didn't seem like the most romantic person in the world. John, on the other hand, Sherlock had deduced to be a nearly hopeless romantic. Opposites. Complete opposites. How in the world had they turned out being a couple in the first place?

"John?"

"Hmm?" John finds himself nonchalantly rubbing Sherlock's shoulder, not that Sherlock seems to mind of course.

Sherlock swallows hard, as if all the moisture had been vacuumed from his throat. "Were you happy?"

"What?"

"With me, I mean. I seem to be a bit of an arsehole. I can't imagine many people like me."

John gives a sort of half-smile and slinks his arm around Sherlock's clavicle. "Most people don't. You do tend to be a massive arsehole."

"Did we fight?"

"Oh sure. But that's what all couples do, don't they?"

"I wouldn't know."

John presses his lips together firmly. Sherlock really wouldn't know. He doubted Sherlock had ever had a real, proper relationship before he came along. Even when they first came out as partners, Sherlock had seemed oblivious to everything. He didn't like being touched very often. Even an act such as this, with John practically hugging him from behind, Sherlock would have pushed him away in an instant. It's nice, John thinks to himself, this new Sherlock. This new Sherlock that seemed to not only not mind John's ministrations, but welcome it.

John can't help himself from leaning forward to press his lips on the tip of Sherlock's ear, but the moment he does, Sherlock shuts the laptop and abruptly stands, startling John. "It's been exactly an hour," Sherlock states, completely unfazed. "I need to check my experiment."

He shuffles away from John and into the kitchen, leaving John standing there to recollect his thoughts. They were having a rather domestic moment. But alas, Sherlock could get so distracted by his scientific investigations. He was the one who would actually leave straight in the middle of sex to check on a chemical substance he was heating, leaving John incomplete and utterly frustrated behind belief.

* * *

John collapses into his armchair, pulling Sherlock down onto his lap and crashing their lips together.

Both of them gasp simultaneously. John's hands firmly grasp Sherlock's hips and Sherlock's fingers snake around John's shoulders, steadying himself on John's lap.

The kiss is ravenous and nothing they had ever shared since the accident. Wild and animalistic, shoving their tongues down each other's throats and biting each other's lips like they were going to eat each other.

Moaning around Sherlock's mouth, John has to wonder how they had gotten into such a compromising situation. After all, moments ago they were at each other's throats-and not in the sense of what they were doing right now.

It was a case. Terrorist attack. Sherlock had nearly gotten himself blown up. A huge fight had erupted, Sherlock had called John pitiful and weak, John had retorted with a "you're such a dick!" before the suspect got away. Still massively fuming at each other, they made a run for it, down the London streets and nearly getting run over by all sorts of passing vehicles. John was the one who tackled the criminal to the ground, but when Lestrade came around Sherlock absorbed all the credit and John had actually punched him square in the jaw. Lestrade had to physically separate them and sent the both of them home, still fuming with each other.

The cab ride home hadn't helped at all. They bickered all the way to Baker Street, much to the dismay of the cab driver.

After angrily paying the cab, they walked briskly up the stairs shouting insults at each other until Sherlock blurted out "I hate you" to which John had grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar, yanked him down abruptly, and smashed their lips together in response.

And so here they were.

John presses his hips against Sherlock's and lets out a delightful groan into Sherlock's mouth. Their teeth clack together, almost painfully, if it wasn't for their state of pure euphoria. Sherlock's response is to roll his pelvis into John, aligning their crotches for some magnificently delicious friction, despite all the layers of clothes between them.

"John," Sherlock rasps, his voice low and damn right sexy.

"Mmm," John moans against Sherlock's lips.

"We should stop."

"Yes we should."

But they don't.

It's too hot, in more than one sense of the word. Sherlock helps John shrug off his jacket, and John untucks Sherlock's shirt from his trousers, neither of them seemingly willing to break the heated kiss. Sherlock's hands are on John's neck now, long fingers dancing across the skin and making John's hair practically stand on end.

"Fuck," John swears as he inhales, shutting his eyes tight and throwing his head back as pleasure from inside his trousers shoots up his spine. This breaks the kiss and gives Sherlock the opportunity to attach his lips to John's neck, sucking and biting with a primal instinct he didn't even know he had.

John slips his hands beneath Sherlock's shirt, sliding them up the thin torso and around the bony back to pull their bodies closer together as they continue to grind against each other. Sherlock lets out a heated moan across John's throat, cause John to exhale sharply and swear again.

"Sherlock," John croaks in a way that he's sure is the complete opposite of sexy, his entire body shuddering in pleasure as Sherlock licks a long trail down his neck and to his shoulder. His fingers, still under Sherlock's shirt, dig into the skin of Sherlock's back. This only causes Sherlock to bite down on John's shoulder in retort.

They're so vocal. Sherlock moans loudly, something he would never have done a year ago, and it sends shudders down John's spine and straight to his crotch, his cock now straining painfully against his pants. He bucks his hips up to meet Sherlock's, knowing that if he doesn't get some sort of relief, he's going to go crazy.

He slips his hands out from under Sherlock's shirt to grasp Sherlock's hips again, fingers hooking under the waistband of the detective's trousers.

Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice John unbuckling his pants, or if he does, he doesn't seem to want to stop it. He only grinds their pelvises together again, reconnecting their lips in another heated kiss. Sloppy, not at all perfect. He bites down on John's tongue, and John gives out a little cry, but not a pained cry, exactly. John seems to like pain. Sherlock makes a mental note at the back of his head.

John undoes the belt holding up Sherlock's trousers and unzips the fly as quickly as possible. He wraps his hands around Sherlock's lower back to tug them closer together again before resting his palms against Sherlock's flat abdomen. He can feel it contract with each of Sherlock's labored breathes, rugged and uneven and without a real pattern.

Sherlock lets his hands travel down to John's chest, desperately tugging at the buttons. He pops one, and then another, his fingers practically trembling as he moves down further and further. Unbuttoning a shirt should not be this difficult. But it is.

Having successfully unbuttoned the last button, Sherlock pulls the shirt apart in a ravenous matter, hands immediately settling on John's bare chest. They finally break their kiss for air, both gasping as if the entire room has been deprived of oxygen. John slips his fingers underneath the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock throws his head back in pleasure and thrusts his hips against John's particularly hard.

"Dammit," John hisses between his teeth, reaching down Sherlock's pants to grasp his already rock hard erection. Oh, the strained whine that comes out of Sherlock's throat as he's very nearly overwhelmed with pleasure is music to John's ears.

Sherlock digs his fingers into John's torso, clawing at the flesh and involuntarily bucking his hips up to meet John's hand. He can't remember ever feeling this good and dear lord it's a wonderful feeling.

Neither of them can think straight. John strokes Sherlock underneath his pants, his hand practically shaking around Sherlock's length. This causes Sherlock to grind their crotches together again and they groan simultaneously. Sherlock lets his forehead fall to John's shoulder and chokes back a pleasured sob as John fists him at an increasingly faster pace. Beneath them, John's armchair creaks back and forth, threatening to break if they continue their ministrations, but neither of them care. They rock in unison, John's hands on Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock's hands randomly roaming John's chest, once every while resting his palm against John's chest and feeling his heart try to rip itself out of John's ribcage.

And then there's a knock on the door.

Both John and Sherlock are suddenly turned to stone. Frozen in time. Not a muscle moved, not a breath breathed.

"Boys?" Dear lord, it's Mrs. Hudson. And she sounds concern. "Boys are you okay? You're not fighting up there, are you?"

Fucking fuck shit fuck holy goddamn fucking shit shit dammit fucking hell fuck

"We've settled it," John calls out, pretty sure his voice cracked thrice between those three words like his throat is parched.

Neither of them even breathe until the footsteps go away and they're in the clear. Then reality smacks them both in the face. Whatever they had just done, it wasn't supposed to happen. This was not taking things slow. It might have been consensual, but it certainly wasn't the proper thing to do.

John lets out a giant sigh of relief, but hitches his breath yet again when he comes face to face with Sherlock's expression. At first, the detective looks absolutely disgusted, horrified even. He opens his mouth slightly, as if to say something, and then he goes emotionless, his jaw clenched and his perfectly shaped lips pressing together in a tight thin line.

That's when John realizes he still had his hand down Sherlock's pants, fingers wrapped around a slowly softening erection. What a fucking mood killer. He lets go of Sherlock awkwardly and clears his throat.

Sherlock's response is to rebutton his trousers and buckle up his belt in silence before slowly getting off John's lap. He doesn't take one glance at John as he tucks his shirt back into his trousers and heads off towards his bedroom, leaving poor John half-naked, completely disheveled, and hard as hell. Anybody could see the obvious differences in them. Sherlock walked away dignified, nobody could look at him and even guess what he had just done, while John was slumped in his chair looking like a complete mess. Tragic, really.

John chews on his bottom lip, right hand twiddling with the golden band around his left ring finger as he finds himself engrossed in thought. Perhaps this could be considered a leap backwards. Maybe the both of them had just destroyed everything they'd been working on. Things might just have been absolutely ruined.


	9. Chapter 9

Walking into the living room, John half-expects to see Sherlock sitting there with his fingertips pressed together, as he usually did when deep in thought. What he found, however, was that Sherlock's head was down, practically to his knees with his eyes focused on the floor, his forearms resting nervously on his thighs. His hands are practically twitching. This startles John greatly.

"Sherlock?"

Upon hearing his name, Sherlock's head shoots up abruptly and he turns to face John. There are obvious bags under his eyes, his complexion paler than usual. He looked overall distraught, as if he had seen a ghost.

Oh indeed, John is worried. "Sherlock have you slept last night?"

"Of course not," is Sherlock's response. "Too many things to think about."

John presses his lips together. "We need to talk."

"Whatever for?" Sherlock sprawls himself out over the couch and begins to turn away from John, but the doctor grabs his shoulder firmly, preventing any sort of movement.

"Yesterday."

"I don't remember yesterday."

"Bollocks." John presses down on Sherlock's shoulder with perhaps a bit more force than he should have. He looks down at the gaunt face under him in horror. Sherlock's looking worse than he's looked in quite a while, if his chest hadn't been rising and falling he could be mistaken for dead, and John can only guess what it means. He gets a terrible knot in his stomach.

He grabs both Sherlock's shoulder and pulls the detective back up. "Oh my god," he cries out, his eyes growing wide. "Oh my god are you using?"

"Using what, John?" Sherlock, a bit surprised by John's sudden behavior, lets out a tiny gasp.

"Drugs!" John practically screams, gripping Sherlock's shoulders harshly and even shaking them a bit. "Drugs, dammit Sherlock! Are you on drugs?"

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. "What?" he's shaken again and he grabs John's own shoulders in retaliation. "For God's sake John, what the hell are you babbling about?"

"You are!" John yells, his fingers digging into the flesh around the joints of Sherlock's shoulder. "You promised!" And then he froze. Sherlock did promise. But that was nearly two years ago. He wouldn't have remembered that, would he?

"I'm not!" Sherlock retorts, shaking John in the same manner as John had been shaking him. "Listen to me!"

John then lets his head fall in a sudden change of attitude, his hands still firmly around Sherlock's shoulder. He sounds like he's holding back the sob of his life. "How can I?" he asks exasperatedly.

Sherlock parts his lips slightly, intent on saying something, but shuts his mouth. His arms fall down to his sides.

"John."

There isn't a response.

Sherlock tries again. "John."

This time, John lets his head rise to meet Sherlock, his eyebrows deeply furrowed. "You're not on drugs."

"Of course not."

"And I can trust you?"

"Can you?"

John bites his lip. A few months ago, he would have entrusted Sherlock with his life. Since the accident, a new Sherlock had emerged. A Sherlock that, while very similar to the Sherlock of the past, could not be mistaken for the same person. John still could not predict this Sherlock's actions. He was not yet sure of what this Sherlock was fully capable of. But there is sincerity in his eyes, and that's all John needs to make heart melt into a boiling mess of puddle straight there on the floor. So he nods slowly, silently saying that yes, he could trust Sherlock.

"Good," is Sherlock's short response. He stands up just then, shaking off John's hands and walking away from the scene. His pace is quick, heading towards the kitchen. An experiment, probably. Sherlock was not one to linger, especially after an argument. As he approached the kitchen, however, he stops straight in his tracks and hesitates. He has to question the reasons behind John's behavior. Why John would even suspect him of taking drugs in the first place. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"Was I…" it seems Sherlock is having difficulty phrasing his question. In the end, he settles for the most blatant terms possible. "Was I a drug addict?" He doesn't even turn to face John, worried John's expression might give it away.

It takes John quite some time to answer. "You…have had your problems. I suppose you dealt with them mostly before you even met me. You were relatively clean once we started sharing a flat. Although…" John takes a deep breath, as if he's unsure of whether to continue or not. "There was a case. Just a year ago, I believe. A serial killer like none London had ever heard of. Particularly vile and grotesque, yet not a spot of evidence could be found. It was really taking a toll on you, I guess. You were so frustrated you hardly slept or ate a thing for nearly two weeks straight. I was afraid you would starve yourself to death. And then I came home one day and you were having a fit. Throwing everything across the room from books to hydrochloric acid and your hands…your hands were trembling like you were shell-shocked."

Sherlock looks down at his hands, long and bony, and perfectly still.

"Swearing," John continues. "You kept swearing and babbling and you didn't make an ounce of sense. It was rather frightening, but it only lasted a short while before you were collapsed on the floor practically having a seizure. After you had settled you could hardly move a muscle, like you were massively ill. I was scared to death, quite honestly, and I begged you never frighten me like that again."

"Did I…hurt you?" The words strain against Sherlock's throat like he can't even bear the thought, let alone ask the question.

John gives a sort of lighthearted chuckle. "Don't worry about that."

"I did, didn't I?" Sherlock slowly turns his head around. John is standing there in the living room, staring straight at him, his back straight and his overall posture the most military Sherlock had ever seen him. His feet seem to move on its own, walking back over to John. "I hurt you."

"Sherlock, please."

"Did you bruise?"

"Don't do this." John shakes his head briskly. "Don't do this to yourself."

And then Sherlock is there, standing in front of John and practically towering over him. John doesn't like it much when he does that. Makes him feel a bit inferior.

A saddening silence fills the air as the two of them stand there face to face, studying each other's expressions. John shifts between sympathetic and confused, while Sherlock, as always, remains cold and unsolved.

And then Sherlock bends down a bit, capturing John's lips in a soft kiss and practically stealing his breath all in one go.

This comes as a surprise to John, this being the first kiss Sherlock himself had initiated. Not that John minds at all of course, in fact he can't help the butterflies buzzing within his stomach in excitement that finally, finally they're making some real progress in their relationship. Just when he was ready to give up hope after their raunchy incident yesterday, just when he had thought to himself that everything had been ruined, when in fact perhaps it had brought them even closer together.

Sherlock gently cups John's cheek with one slender hand while the other snakes over John's shoulder, bringing the two of them closer to each other ever the slightest. At first John just hangs there limp with his arms dangling by his sides because he had no idea how to react, but then he kisses back eagerly, both hands reaching around Sherlock's neck and sliding up into the dark, unruly curls of Sherlock's hair.

It's an innocent kiss. Neither of their lips even part. A kiss a shy couple would share in public. Except they're not in public, but in the comforts of their own home.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbles against John's lips, pressing their foreheads together.

"For what?" is John's response.

Sherlock strokes his hand up and down John's cheek in an almost reassuring manner. "For hurting you."

"You didn't know," John whispers. "You can't even remember."

"I want to," Sherlock admits, the hand on John's shoulder moving down his back. "I want to remember everything about us. All the good things, and all the bad. I hate being this. I hate that you know everything and I know nothing."

John lets out a short laugh and tangles his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock then separates them, hands dropping down to grab John's hands instead. With his thumb he caresses the golden band around John's left ring finger. He looks at it thoughtfully, perhaps the slightest hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "I want this to work," he says, rubbing the cool metal ring gently.

"What are you suggesting?" John asks, his heart starting to beat rapidly like a schoolboy in love for the first time.

"That perhaps that, starting now, we could be a little more than just flatmates?"

"Oh God yes."


	10. Chapter 10

The first time they officially made love again was both breathtaking and heartbreaking at the same time.

John knew every place on Sherlock's body, every nook and cranny that could get Sherlock to melt in his arms. Pushing Sherlock onto the bed softly, he immediately attacks Sherlock's collarbone with sweet, gentle butterfly kisses while his hands grasp Sherlock's hips, fingers massaging into the pelvis. Sherlock, quite pleased indeed, lets out a small barely audible gasp and threads his own fingers through John's hair, his head thrown back to encourage John to use all available flesh around Sherlock's neck. Their bodies are pressed together, emitting some very wonderful heat between the both of them.

They flip over suddenly, and John is very nearly shocked. Despite his intimidating personality, Sherlock was never quite so dominant in bed, and John had to remind himself that this was not the same Sherlock. Not that he minded much of course.

However, once on top and in control, Sherlock seems to be at a loss. He scans John's naked torso, and his eyes tell John that he remembers nothing. John's body is foreign to Sherlock. Sherlock is practically a virgin all over again, hesitant and unsure of where to touch. What does John like, Sherlock wonders? Where does John like being touched best? He supposed he used to be able to make John squirm with a single touch, but no more. He must learn all over again.

John gives a small, sympathetic chuckler and grabs the back of Sherlock's head to bring him down for a tender loving kiss. "It's okay, love," he whispers against Sherlock's lips.

"It's not," Sherlock retorts back, dropping his forehead to John's shoulder. "I'm supposed to remember."

John pets Sherlock's hair reassuringly. "You will, Sherlock. Be patient."

"Patient is not one of my best known attributes."

"I'll say." And then John flips them over again, ready to take control of the situation yet again. He drops his head to Sherlock's chest to kiss right where Sherlock's heart is.

In response, Sherlock wraps his arms around John's bare back and exhales sharply. "Oh."

John grins, his lips still pressed to the flesh of Sherlock's torso. "Like that, huh?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock bites his lower lip, as if embarrassed he had even mentioned it. He closes his eyes as John kisses down his flesh slowly, tenderly, as if he were afraid Sherlock might break. If Sherlock had never experience bliss before in his life, he certainly had now.

John can feel Sherlock's growing arousal against his stomach, separated by just a thin layer of fabric, and he moans against Sherlock's skin. It's delicious and hot and everything John remembers it to be. Oh, how John missed this. He missed running his tongue down Sherlock's chest, rubbing his fingers over Sherlock's nipple, grazing his teeth over Sherlock's flat-nearly concave-stomach, pressing his temple to Sherlock's chest and just laying there still as stone, feeling Sherlock's ribcage rise and fall with every steady breath.

By this time, Sherlock is already choking back a series of pleasured sobs, trying to contain himself as John tenderly kisses his hipbones. When John slides warm fingers down his pants, Sherlock's hands leave John's back to tangle violently into the sheets at his sides.

John thinks it's adorable, really, how sensitive Sherlock is to his touch. He actually grins as he wraps his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock, marveling in the beautiful sight of his lover practically writhing beneath him, eyes strained tight, perfect lips parted slightly, breath hitched, and hands clenched tightly around bedsheets as he tries to maintain that perfect control over his body that he's famous for. Only John gets to see him like this. That thought only makes John's grin grow wider.

He leans forward again, practically breathing straight into Sherlock's ear as he grips his lover's hot, pulsating cock tightly. "It's okay," he whispers, planting a small kiss at the tip of Sherlock's ear. "Let me hear you."

Sherlock's response is just to bite his lip harder and turn his head away from John, perhaps still too embarrassed. John tries not to feel rejected too much, knowing that while the Sherlock of the past wouldn't have been embarrassed in the slightest, this Sherlock was new, and to him, this was still the first time he and John had had sex.

John pulls Sherlock's pants down completely and tosses them aside, leaving the detective completely naked and exposed. With the fabric gone, he is more free to pull at Sherlock's erection, sliding his hand up and down the thick flesh and generating some wonderful friction. The way Sherlock bucks his hips up to match John's wanking is extremely erotic, and combined with the fact that he hadn't gotten laid within the past couple of months, cause John to involuntarily hump the bed like he's some sort of virginal teenager instead of a well-experienced adult man.

John slides his tongue back down Sherlock's body to kiss his pelvis again, never once breaking the rhythm of his hand moving across Sherlock's cock. He presses his lips against Sherlock's inner thigh, and at that, Sherlock involuntarily lets out a strangled moan. The fact that John is able to produce sounds from Sherlock's mouth boosts his confidence greatly, and he lets out a moan in return, to encourage the slender man beneath him, to tell him that it's okay to moan, to scream even. In fact, John wants him to scream. He wants Sherlock to scream his name into his ear as they both approach their inevitable orgasm.

When Sherlock feels the heat of John's tongue across the tip of his cock, he finally lets out a well earned sob, clutching at the bedsheets until his knuckles turn even whiter than usual. "John," he strains his voice to cry out, exhaling deeply.

"Mmm," is John's response, his focus on Sherlock's weeping erection but still being able to hear every sound that comes out of the detective's mouth. It's porn, really, to John's ears, just the sound of Sherlock's heavy breathing. Live, real, porn.

John closes his lips around the head of Sherlock's cock, keeping a hand wrapped around the base at all times. This is nothing new to John. Sherlock used to be quite fond of receiving them, really, the most efficient way to get off when he was in a rush or when he couldn't be bothered with full blown sex. John quite missed the taste, actually. Just the taste of Sherlock's arousal on his tongue put him in a state of near euphoria.

He sucks, tenderly at first, and then harder once Sherlock starts bucking his hips up, demanding for more. He has to hold Sherlock's hips down with a free hand to keep from choking, but he knows it's not Sherlock's fault. Sherlock is practically a virgin again, after all. John doubts he even remembers what it feels like to have another touch him, caress his skin, give him pleasure in ways unimaginable.

"Ah," Sherlock moans, growing more and more confident with his vocals by the minute, or perhaps he simply has no control anymore. It's a very scary thought, actually, that Sherlock could lose control like this. Sherlock, always precise, always deliberate, and yet falling mercilessly into a mess by the hands of John Watson.

John licks a slow, deliberate trail up the base of Sherlock's cock, moaning as he does so, causing Sherlock to practically twitch in his hand. With the other, he gently massages Sherlock's hip, thumb rubbing tender circles into the pale flesh.

When John goes down on him again, Sherlock swears-rather loudly, and his hands unconsciously let go of the bedsheets and immediately attach themselves to the back of John's head like a pair of magnets. John doesn't seem to mind, rather encourages Sherlock tangling fingers into his hair by deepthroating, just as far as he could possibly go. He's a bit rusty, as expected, but it's beautiful all the same, and quite honestly Sherlock probably wouldn't be able to tell the distance.

When Sherlock lets out a particularly loud moan, John slides the cock from his mouth and lets go completely. "John," Sherlock whispers, his body looking like he was about to seize from the lack of heat around his rock hard erection.

John gives a light chuckle and slides back up Sherlock's body to capture his lips again in the type of kiss only lovers would give each other. He glides a hand across the smooth skin of Sherlock's thigh, gently encouraging his legs apart as their tongues dance around each other in a heated battle for dominance, neither of whom seems to care who wins or loses.

Without breaking the kiss, John grabs the waistband of his pants and pulls them down frantically, letting his own painful erection free. He moans into Sherlock's mouth at the feeling of sweet release.

Sherlock, albeit a bit distracted, can feel John lifting his hips up, angling him so that his arse is in full view of John's periphery. He becomes increasingly aware of the finger now prodding against his hole, circling it in such a reassuring manner it's quite nearly ridiculous.

When John's index finger begins to slide into him, Sherlock's reaction is to cry out and wrap his arms around John's back as if for stability. His eyes are screwed shut and his pants lightly against John's lips.

John in turn groans, the feeling of his finger being engulfed by that familiar warmth being almost too good for him. Sherlock is so tight. Not as tight as the day John had deflowered him, but tight all the same, and it's simply wonderful. He lets Sherlock squirm in reaction to the intrusion, but once Sherlock shifts himself comfortably, he curls his finger and begins thrusting it into the hole over and over again.

By the time John adds a second finger, Sherlock is nearly a sobbing mess on the bed, his mind lost in the clouds of his own pleasure. He can't remember ever feeling this way. He doesn't even know how his past self was able to stand it, stand this, John pistoning in and out of his body, striking against his prostate with such accuracy only a doctor would have.

"Yes," Sherlock gasps out as John spreads his fingers within him, eyes very nearly rolling back into his head in pleasure. "Yes," he repeats, his voice cracking as he says it, as if his throat had been parched and dehydrated for years.

John drops his head to the Sherlock's shoulder and whispers into his ear in the most gruff, sexy voice Sherlock had ever heard, "are you ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock just groans again, tightening his grip around John's back. "Oh god, yes."

In response, John grips his own cock and strokes himself, his forehead falling to Sherlock's collarbone with a nearly anguished cry coming out of his throat. After such a long time neglecting friction to his own erection and sacrificing it for Sherlock's pleasure, it's a wonderful feeling of relief.

When Sherlock feels the tip of John's cock against his graciously prepared hole, his heart starts beating faster than ever before. His hands practically tremble around John's back, like he's scared. Scared because despite having done this before, he hasn't done this before, and this is John taking his virginity for a second time.

In an attempt to calm his lover down, John kisses him again, soft and passionately, distracting him as he slides into Sherlock, moaning into the kiss as he does.

They break for air and Sherlock lets out a strangled yell while John groans out "fuck!" and steadies himself on his elbows firmly resting on either side of Sherlock.

"You okay?" John lets out hoarsely, eyes staring straight at the conflicting expression on Sherlock's face.

At first, Sherlock doesn't even answer, instead digging his nails into the flesh of John's back. He's frozen, his entire body tense and still like he's afraid something will break if he moves even the slightest inch. He can't even breath, his mouth gaped open but without exhale.

His first inhale is accompanied by a long drawn-out moan, and John can just feel Sherlock relax beneath him. And with that, Sherlock's breathing becomes regular again.

"You okay?" John asks again, already struggling to not lose control of his body. Sherlock is so tight, so warm around him, the heat shooting pleasure up his spine and he practically shivers in contrast.

"Yes," is Sherlock's answer.

John doesn't need any more initiative.

He thrusts forward, swearing as he does so, and he can hear the bed creak beneath the both of them. Sherlock desperately claws at John's back, but the pain is bearable compared to the extreme amount of pleasure both of them are experiencing.

It doesn't take long for John to be able to move with ease, colliding their hips together over and over, because no matter how much of a virgin Sherlock is mentally, physically, he simply is not. This feeling is not new to John. It's a welcome familiarity, and it almost makes John was to cry because Sherlock can't remember a damn thing about it.

On the other hand, Sherlock is having the time of his life. His body is on fire and pleasure is racing up and down his spinal cord, and overall it just feels good. Wonderful. Exquisite.

"Oh my god," Sherlock gasps, clawing into John's spine as his prostate is hit at a deliciously beautiful angle. Their bodies are so close, their naked skin touching. There's just so much friction. It's almost overwhelming.

John thrusts again, particularly hard, having to grip the headboard of the bed for support, and he can feel the bed slam against the wall in time to his thrusts, but he can't really be bothered to care anymore.

"Yes," Sherlock cries out, hands moving up to grasp at John's shoulder blades. "Yes, take me." His voice practically quivers as he says it, and it's incredibly hot, so John drops his head and shoves his tongue down Sherlock's throat.

John does something-Sherlock is unsure of what it is-thrusts against his body ferociously hard, hits a certain spot inside of him, or maybe it's that he slams Sherlock's head against the headboard of the bed, but no matter what the reason, Sherlock's mind is overfilled by the sudden intrusion of colors. Colors taking form within his imagination, taking the shape of John Watson, transforming into the man inside him at this very moment. It's an epiphany. The epiphany he'd been waiting for since the accident. John. John Watson. John Watson his flatmate. No, not his flatmate, his best mate. No, more than that. Lovers. No, even more. Fiancés. Engaged. Good god, they're engaged. They've been engaged this whole time. Two years. How could Sherlock have not remembered?

John halts his actions with difficultly, to stroke Sherlock's head. "Fuck," he swears, most obviously out of breath. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. Is your head all right?"

"John,"

"Are you hurt?"

"John,"

"We could get ice or-,"

"John,"

"I mean, fuck, I kind of really don't want to stop."

"I remember."

Time is frozen.

John is suddenly a stone statue, mouth gaped wide open, staring straight at Sherlock's dead serious face, both of them seemingly unable to breath. John blinks, like he's in disbelief, like this is a dream and he's dreaming right now and he needs to hurry up and wake the hell up, but then Sherlock's hand is on his face and he understands that no, no this is not a dream, and this is real, and Sherlock is right there beneath him, telling him that he remembers.

"I remember, John," Sherlock half laughs and half sobs, cupping John's face within his hands. He smiles up at his lover's awestruck face. "I remember you."

John lets out a single laugh, then stops, as if he's still unsure of whether this is all some horribly disgusting joke or not. But the sincere look in Sherlock's eyes is just too much, and John breaks out into a grin and laughs for real.

"I remember you," Sherlock repeats, his voice showing his excitement in itself, looking deeply into his lover's eyes. "John Watson, my love."

And then they're kissing wildly. John thrusts forward into Sherlock again, sending sparks into each of their minds.

John pulls Sherlock up, without breaking the connection between their bodies, and wraps his arms around Sherlock's back to support him as he sits in John's lap. It's a difficult position to fuck in, but it's extremely intimate and neither of them want it any other way.

Sherlock continues the kiss, gripping John's face tight as teeth collide together almost painfully in time with John's thrusting. Tongues intertwine and moans are exchanged, and it's just beautiful. The heat exchange between them could probably light the whole flat on fire.

John holds Sherlock tightly against him, wanting absolutely as few spaces between their bodies as possible. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck and laughs again, tears unconsciously forming at the corner of his eyes. "How could I forget?" he cries out, nuzzling his face into John's neck. "How could I ever forget?"

"I forgive you," John says, out of breath. He thrusts up and the both of them groan against each other.

Sherlock latches his lips into the side of John's neck, suckling the tender flesh and moaning against it in an attempt to make John Watson crumble before him. Suddenly he remembers all about how to make John melt. All the little places on his body that could kill John in the best ways possible. Sherlock slips a hand between their bodies to glide across John's chest, going out of his way to graze over sensitive nipples as much as possible. "Fuck me," Sherlock hisses, biting lightly into the flesh of John's neck. "Fuck me hard, John Watson."

"Oh god," is John's response, his body practically trembling as he continues thrusting up into the love of his life. He's only happy to oblige, of course.

Passion. This is not two strangers fucking, knowing they won't see each other tomorrow. This is not a teenage couple having inexperienced sex just to satisfy their urges. This is the lovemaking of two lovers who have loved each other for a long time. Lovers who know each other's bodies more than they know their own. Lovers that know secrets nobody else does, secrets that Sherlock can finally remember.

And oh, does Sherlock remember. He remembers it all. The feeling of John's touch, the day they first met, all the painful fights they'd had, just everything. He remembers a cold December morning on a relaxing domestic morning, walking up behind John who was sitting in his armchair reading the paper and drinking coffee, and blatantly whispering into his ear "let's get married." He remembers John spitting coffee across the room and spilling the hot cup onto the floor shouting "bloody hell!" as the wet heat scorched through his trousers.

Sherlock remembers the party-their engagement party, when the both of them went out of their comfort zone to express more public displays of affection than they ever had since they had become an official couple. The pictures flash across his mind with every thrust John makes against his body, all the pictures he had seen on John's laptop, and how none of it had ever made complete sense until right now at this very moment.

Sherlock screams as he hits his orgasm.

He clenches his body tight and shakes, his whole body trembling like he's frightened and his whole mind blank and filled with nothing but pure euphoria. In fact, Sherlock couldn't be sure he was even alive. His orgasm might have just killed him at that exact moment and he was in heaven right now, experiencing the greatest pleasure of his life.

John holds him tightly throughout the process, clinging to him like he's afraid Sherlock will slip away if he lets go.

John's orgasm is silent, but just as pleasurable as Sherlock's as white clouds his vision and his body can't seem to function properly.

For the longest time neither can do anything but sit there twitching in each other's arms. Both their minds in a state of bliss, their breathing hard and uneven, sweat coating their hot bodies.

After coming down from their euphoric high, they're just flat out exhausted and collapse next to each other onto the bed, laying side by side without the energy to move a single muscle. They can't be bothered to even lift their pinky finger, and so they don't.

And for the first time since Sherlock's memory had failed, they sleep together yet again and John's hopes and dreams are finally fulfilled.


	11. Epilogue

**THIS IS A DOUBLE UPLOAD**

**MAKE SURE YOU READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER FIRST**

* * *

"Sherlock, would you just be still for a moment?" John sighs in exasperation.

Sherlock cranes his neck to look behind John, as if something incredibly interesting resides there.

"Sherlock, please," John snaps, trying to straighten the bowtie on Sherlock's suit. His golden ring shines vividly around his finger. Its twin counterpart resides on Sherlock's left hand, relaxed at his side and ever so beautiful.

"I just can't see why I'm not allowed to wear my coat," Sherlock says.

John gives up and instead opts to brush off Sherlock's shoulder. "You can't wear that monstrosity. You'll wrinkle your suit. We're getting married, for god's sake!"

"It's not a monstrosity."

"It is. Now hurry up and let's go. Mycroft is a very busy man and he'll have our heads hanging on his wall if we make him late."

Sherlock groans like a five year old child. "Why on earth did you invite him if he's going to be all pissy?"

John snorts. "Because he's your brother and he deserves to see you getting married, of course. And you're one to talk about getting all pissy. Pissy is your middle name."

"All right, all right," Sherlock snarls. "Fine. I'm going." He spins around on his heels still quite aggravated and strides towards the door. When he reaches the doorknob, however, he realizes John hadn't been following him. He turns back around to face the doctor, a questioned look on his face. "Well what is it?"

John is standing there, a huge grin on his face, shaking his head like he's in disbelief. "We're doing this. We're actually doing this."

"Yes," is Sherlock's impatient answer. "And you're making a stupid face. Now let's _go_."

"Yes dear."

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen I present to you the first fic I've actually ever completely finished in my life

Hallelujah

Aaaaand this is me apologizing for rushing the ending and for making it extremely cheesy and cliche and stupid and just I'm sorry. I kind of ran out of ideas and started working on a completely new fic that I like better than this so I was like "fml I'm done with this" and yeah.

But I just want to take this time to thank everyone for all the reception. I got some really kind reviews and just alscoawegfuimceji I love you all.


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